You Can't Always Get What You Want
by tyrsibs
Summary: OR When the Mark met the Amulet OR Dean and Sammy's post-demon cure road trip. UPDATE 5/5/16: I should have written faster, I suppose. Thank you to everyone who followed this story, and enjoyed it. I'd love to know if you think this is worth continuing, because my outline just went out the window and landed somewhere in Hope Springs, ID. If yes, encouragement sorely needed! TY
1. Chapter 1

When the knock sounded on his door, Dean bolted upright a little too fast, pulling away from the headboard and swinging his legs to the floor. "Yeah-," he said.

He counted a beat, two beats, before Sam entered. As his gigantic little brother stared down at him, Dean saw the now almost rote checklist in his gaze as it began again: hands empty, check. Rolled sleeves, far enough down to hide the Mark on his arm, check. Weary, slightly bloodshot eyes, still one-hundred percent green, check.

Dean cleared his throat. "So, did you find the cooler yet?"

"Yeah. Yeah—it was in the garage, like you thought. So, if you're good to go—" Sam's gaze slipped to the desk by the wall, and he moved that way, another step, two steps, away from the bed. Dean watched in silence as Sam began gathering the remains of last night's cholesterol extravaganza, brown paper wrappers, cup and straw disappearing neatly into the oversize go bag, until his attention caught on a piece of paper, or something, concealed in his brother's sling. A half inch of white corner protruded from the gap between cloth and arm. Not a paper, he realized.

"What's in the box, Sam?"

Sam froze for a moment before dropping the last wrapper into the bag. He turned again, meeting Dean's eyes briefly before reaching into his sling with his good hand and drawing out a think square box. He tapped it on the thumb of his wounded arm, once, twice, before crossing the room and holding it out to Dean.

Dean tried on a smirk. "What'd you, you get me a 'thanks for not bashing my head in' present?"

Sam let out a huff of air. "You want to know what it is, take it."

Dean took the box from the outstretched hand and opened the lid. His breath caught a moment when he saw what was inside. The black cord, the polished bronze face he'd never thought to see again. Gingerly, gently, he touched the cheek of the horned cow god, the amulet he had thrown away years ago. "Sammy-"

"Yes, I kept it, alright? Fished it out of that fucking wastebasket-Bobby held on to it for a while for me, he must've stuck it in one of those storage units of his. After-"

"When Jodi brought us his books, his other things, well, there it was." Sam waved that memory away with a sweep of his hand. "I started carrying it around, when—you know-. For a while, when you were gone, I thought I could use it in a tracking spell—or maybe, I could use it to, to—"

"Summon me?"

"Yeah, I suppose. Either way it didn't work. The thing's got some kind of power, thought, and I thought—"

Sam ran his hand through his mop of hair, glancing away and then back Dean, who still stared down into the box. "You don't have to wear it, if you don't want to. You know, just say the word—I'm going to archive it, though, if you don't want it, so, speak now, I guess."

"Good idea. Leave it for the next Man of Letters to figure out. Bet you've got the index card all typed out and ready to go, huh?"

Sam's brow furrowed more deeply in irritation, or maybe concern, and Dean relented. "How about I take care of it for a while? Promise I'll set it in its perfect spot when the time comes."

At that, Sam's mouth quirked into a small grin that appeared and disintegrated with lightning speed. "Yeah, okay. Well, the beer's in the fridge and the cooler's half full of ice, so—"

"I'm almost ready. Be there in a sec."

His brother nodded, turned towards the door.

"Sam?"

"Don't mention it." The door closed softly behind Sam's back.

Dean gazed down at the bronze amulet. He wasn't ready to pull the cord over his head, of that much he was sure. But the urge to pick it up, feel its weight, proved strong, and he plucked the cord out of the box, bringing the cow god's face close to his own. Not ready.

Maybe, though, he could wear it in another way.

He pulled his shirt cuff up, over the brand on his forearm, and on to the middle of his bicep. The fingers of his left hand, entwined in the cord, brushed over the Mark as he did so, and he grimaced at the zing of achy pleasure the touch brought on.

The cord wrapped once, twice, around his upper arm. Dean finished with a simple knot, pulling the amulet down through the cord loop. Not too tight—tight enough to hold it steady. The face now dangled down inside of his arm a few inches above the Mark. His own little mojo tourniquet.

The grimace turned up into a bitter half smile. He felt the Mark's protest against this new intruder, a bone-deep itch settling in.

He might not be able to leave the amulet on for long-but the cord would hold.

The thin, black cord was strong.


	2. Chapter 2

Starting is the hardest part. In Dean's case, this time, that meant shouldering his duffle and stepping to the door. Entering the hallway and remembering the path to the garage. At least he didn't have to walk past the eye-level gouge where he'd slammed the hammer into the wall instead of into his brother's skull. Small favors, he thought. Small favors, and small gifts. The words echoed along with his footsteps, along with the slight rhythm of the amulet tied to his upper arm as it rocked back and forth with each step, along with an almost imperceptible itch on his forearm.

Sam had the trunk of the Impala open, his back to the doorway, and if his shoulders stiffened as Dean approached, neither of them said anything. He turned, acknowledging his brother with a glance and a nod. Dean pulled the duffle off of his shoulder and grasped its bottom handle, preparing to hoist it into the trunk. Without a word, Sam took the strap from him with his good hand and began to guide the bag towards an empty space in the corner of the trunk. Even with a busted shoulder, Dean thought. He held tight to the bottom of the duffle and slipped his free hand back onto the strap. It was no real contest, but the bag swung back and forth between them several times before they finally wrestled it into its spot.

Dean saw that the car was neatly packed with an unusual array of camping and fishing gear. Their old green cooler took up a big chunk of that space, but it dawned on him that he'd never seen many of its other contents before today. He reached in, brushed his fingers across the aluminum frame of an old nylon-webbed lawn chair, and then grasped a hardened leather tube which had been nestled precisely in a blanketed groove between cooler and chair. He pulled it out of the trunk.

Sam's hand reflexively moved towards his own, as if he wanted to take the tube away, and place it back where it belonged. But he let his hand drop down to his side as Dean popped the chained cap off and peered inside.

"Huh." He reached in and pulled out the handle of a bamboo fishing rod. He couldn't remember ever seeing one quite like this before. It was a spinning rod, he thought, but the reel was actually part of the handle, not detachable like most modern models. The open steel cylinder with its slim posts for taking up the fishing line was integrated within a wooden handle that curved just a bit, like the grip of an antique pistol—or the hilt of a sword. Dean ran an appreciative palm over the wood with another soft, "Huh."

He turned to Sam. "This thing must be from the '30s or '40s, right? You've been rummaging around in some poor dead Man of Letter's lockbox again?"

"Hey, at least I'm not wearing his bathrobe and shuffling around like some Ghost of Legacies Past…" Sam blurted, then froze suddenly, dropping his gaze. More unspoken words pulsed between them. Kevin. Metatron's Blade. Dean felt his own half smile curdling.

"Nah, never mind. It's a nice rod. Probably a mother to load up the line, though."

"You'll figure it out."

There was nothing to say to this. Dean dropped the rod back into its case, sealed down the cap, and stowed the tube back into Baby's trunk.

Sam closed the lid with a soft clunk, pulling the key quickly as the latch clicked home. He looked back at Dean's face and held out the keys, another silent offering, and dropped them into Dean's outstretched hand.

Baby waited, patiently gleaming, as Dean turned on his heel towards the driver-side door. "You cleaned her up."

"Yeah—it was… I—"Sam mumbled as he walked around the other side. "Figured it was the least I could do." His brows rose slightly, expectantly, in anticipation of Dean's response.

Sam's nervous, too-young look pained Dean, the one that said, "Is it okay? We okay?" He tried not to wince, pasted on another grin instead. "Well, alright, then. Let's find some moving water and test out that rod." As he moved to the door, the remnants of the amulet's shifting song whispered in his head.

Small gifts, small gifts, small favors, small gifts—

The Mark throbbed out a counterpoint. Remember how clean. Remember how easy. Remember the taking. Remember the lust.

As soon as he had slipped under the steering wheel and turned the key, Dean jabbed at the radio controls, willing both songs to silence. "Stifle yourselves—," he thought, briefly wondering where he'd picked up that particular phrase.

Having pushed the controls to lift the garage doors, Sam settled into the shotgun seat. "Ready?" He asked, still too young, still too hopeful.

"Moving up and out, Sammy."

He drove under the Men of Letters insignia above the door, into the dim tunnel beyond. He knew that the doors would close behind them, triggering the outside doors as they did, and wished he could retrieve that sense of being Batman, emerging from his secret cave. Maybe he could get it back now and then, if he didn't try too hard. After all, Batman got pretty dark, too, didn't he? Or really, he always was dark, under those grey spandex tights. Dean allowed a little smile to play across his face.

Small favors, small gifts.

Remember the _howl_, the Mark insisted.

As they passed into the tunnel, a glint of light caught on the Aquarian star of the bunker's creators. If Dean wondered momentarily about the source of that brightening light, he let it pass as he moved on. His eyes intent on the sudden darkness of the tunnel, he didn't notice how it flared as the Impala passed under it as though it had been struck by an opposing force. He didn't see the spark that was released from the insignia falling downward and the tunnel behind them. He didn't notice the spark as it slipped from spotlight to spotlight, following his Baby into the outside world, or see pop out of existence at the mouth of the tunnel. The Mark sent a pulsing tingle up his right arm, though, which faded to that persistent itch as it met the amulet's cord. They moved into the fading sunset colors, leaving both the light and the dark behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

The night was cool, comforting, and empty, and the Impala rumbled down the old blacktop highway like a ghost from another era. Dean shook himself and yawned, refocusing on the edge of light from her headlights' glow, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. The Mark still throbbed in time to the wheel-song, but the amulet seemed to have fallen asleep. Or maybe, he thought, the Mark had just drowned out its little tune.

Dean had always liked driving at night, even before too many run-ins with the cops had made the nighttime and the back-country roads the routes of choice for his brother and him. Better to appear in a town at daybreak and slip away at dusk before anyone started to question why the Feds would authorize the mileage on a big old gas guzzler like his Baby, no matter how pretty she was. Better to glide through the night as far away from the interstate travel plazas as they could get, passing only farmhouses and barn-mounted security lights set far off the road. Better when his brother managed to doze off, and Dean was left to drive and listen to the radio instead of his thoughts.

Beside him Sam craned his neck in his sleep, no doubt trying to find a more comfortable spot against the chilly window. He'd settled his jacket on his lap like a blanket, and out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam's fingers pluck at it. He reached over and pulled it up so that it covered part of Sam's shoulder. His little brother sighed a bit, settling down into the seat, his legs curled up almost to his chin as his knees cleared the dashboard. Dean ought to pull onto the shoulder and tell him to climb into the back so he could stretch out. In another time, he would have.

But today, it was better not to talk. What would he say, anyway?

"I was worse than a dick?"

"Sorry you had to pull my lame ass out of a fire I started myself?"

"I don't know what to do about the Mark?"

"How about that poor man's Jack Nicholson impression, huh?"

Nah—

Dean flicked on the radio, snorting softly to himself as he recognized the song he'd landed on. John Fogerty's high growl was advising him, "Better not complain, boy—you get in trouble with the man—" as Credence's bluesy guitars kicked in behind the lyrics. "Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me." Someone out there had a twisted sense of humor. Dean relaxed and let the song wrap up his apologies and turn his thoughts away from the past week and towards the depths of CCR's great swampy road trip rhythm. When he was a kid, he thought that the Midnight Special had to be some kind of hoodoo, or maybe a legendary ghost train. These days, it just sounded like freedom. He tapped his thumb on the steering wheel in time, checking the rear-view and the side mirrors.

Past Sam's shaggy head, he could see the edge of a fence giving way to an open field. On the other side, dim shapes rose up here and there in the darkness. Nothing to worry about. Cows. Fenced in cows, shifting in their sleep as they huddled together in small groups.

As he turned his gaze back to the road, a flash of movement in the open field caught his attention and he tensed. A tawny flank flitted into view and disappeared. Another cow? Maybe a horse or a deer? He glanced again at the field, thought he saw a shape, running on four legs, in line with the road. Another flash and it was gone again, though he could have sworn he hadn't seen it peel off.

That was a little weird for these parts, he thought. Cattle wouldn't be out in an unfenced field at night, or any other time, and the only deer he'd ever seen around here tended to stick further away from the farms and roads. He'd have to keep an eye out. He turned the music up for the last chorus and hummed quietly as Fogerty rasped out his final plea to "let the Midnight Special-shine its ever-lovin' light—on—me—"

As if on cue, with the fading notes, an animal burst from the shallow barrow pit on Sam's side of the car, just at the edge of the headlights. Dean cursed, hit the brakes, swerving away to avoid slamming into it. The Impala shuddered but held steady to the road, while Sammy's head bounced away and then back into the window with a jarringly loud thump.

The amulet rocked back and forth, one horn digging into Dean's skin in protest.

The animal—a fricking kamikaze deer—hadn't bolted over the fence on the driver's side of the road like he'd expect any panicked but sane animal to do. No, this crazy Bambi angled off to the left of the car as he steered it back into his lane, for all the world like it was challenging him to a race.

Dean slowed to a near-crawl… no way he was going to play chicken with a psycho Bambi. He cautiously pulled the car parallel to it. Sam was starting to struggle upright, a hand on the side of his noggin, still sleep-dazed as his jacket slipped off his arms and down to the floor.

Dean stared at the deer now trotting along in the other lane as he began to edge the car past it. His hands were shaking a bit on the wheel from the adrenaline of the near miss, and he huffed out a breath. The deer stopped moving as they slipped by and swung its antlered head in his direction. He saw its huge dark eyes glimmer in the light.

They glittered from a human face.

He saw the nostrils flare, the mouth, god, a human mouth with lips, widen in a toothy grimace over a curled beard. Dean gasped in shock, slamming the brakes again, squeezing his eyes shut, the trembling of his hands intensifying. On his arm the amulet began to beat faintly, a soft counterpoint to the ever present throb of the Mark.

"Dean?" He opened his eyes and turned to Sam, who was now fully awake and furrowing his brows in concern. Dean waved it away, mutely, and turned back to his window.

The deer-man was gone.

"Hey, what's going on?" he heard Sam ask as he slammed the car into 'Park' and pushed open his door. The familiar creak of the door hinge seemed too loud, the static-ridden commercial now playing on the radio and spilling out into the night air seemed too happy. His feet hit the blacktop. He stood still by the open car door looking up and down the highway. Nothing. Sam opened his door and got out, staring over the roof of the Impala at his brother. "Dean, you ok?"

"Yeah." He turned around. "Yeah, man. Just almost hit Bambi, that's all. Wondered—where it went—" He took another deep breath and let it out in a slow rush. "Guess it shook me up a bit."

"You want me to drive for a while? You could, I don't know, get some rest?"

Dean was about to say no, that he was good to go, but stopped himself as he studied Sam's face. The kid would probably spend the next hundred miles silently checking up on him if he kept driving. He nodded, almost to himself. "OK. Keep an eye out for kamikaze cows, though. My Baby's been through enough already."

He couldn't stop himself from watching the roadsides and glancing behind them as they resumed, even though he saw nothing but far-off house lights. Maybe he'd imagined it, he thought, wiggling down in the seat to find a sweet spot. The amulet rocked again as he crossed his arms, seeming to sing quietly in his head, "li-ar." He touched it, briefly feeling the shape of the face through his jacket sleeve, stilling the movement. His fingers then moved down to settle on the Mark.

Sam's lips pressed into a straight line as he reached for the radio without taking his eyes off the road. He ran through two or three stations that Dean would have liked to stop at before finding some talk radio program. NPR or something, two guys talking back and forth, sounded like a philosophy class.

Dean sighed.

Still, he listened to about an hour of thrilling conversation on the subject of determinism before he was able to push the memory of that freaky-faced thing down. Sam glanced over at him a few times, but said nothing as the highway rolled on under the headlights and the voices droned over the airwaves. Finally his eyelids grew heavy and he let his chin sink onto his chest as he drifted into a fitful sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Pale red daylight pressed against Dean's eyelids as he stirred, raising a hand to his face to wave it off. He felt the leather seat against his back, the creaking pain in his neck when he lifted his head, eyes stubbornly shut. Still in the car, though the engine was silent. The cord around his arm shifted and tightened, the Mark pulsed once in response, and Dean opened his eyes.

The driver's seat was empty. He straightened up, peering out the windshield at the edge of a blacktop parking lot surrounded by shallow-rooted sagebrush, the dust green branches barely holding on to the rusty earth. The Impala was perched at the edge of the blacktop parking lot, which was nearly empty. The pale light that washed across her windows indicated early morning. Sometime. Somewhere. He had just spotted a low brown building out his side window, with a yellow lettered sign naming it a TRADING POST, when his view was filled by Sam's familiar tan jacket and wrong-looking arm sling. His little brother tapped the window with the knuckles of his trapped hand, his other grasping a bag and drink tray with two cups of what Dean hoped was strong black coffee.

Sam backed out of the way as he pushed open the car door, swinging his feet out onto the asphalt and maneuvering his way out of the passenger seat. He pretended to miss the amused quirk of Sam's lips at the length of time it took him to uncurl, but finally he was out and breathing the sage-heavy morning air. He stretched and groaned as he squinted over at Sam, then took the tray from him and negotiated with it to release one of the cups, which he set on the roof of the car next to Sam's injured arm. The second cup went easier, and Dean tossed the tray onto the bench seat.

Sam put the bag down on the Impala's trunk in the meantime, opening it and fishing out a burrito-shaped object wrapped in foil which he handed to Dean. His own came next, and Dean watched him awkwardly open the breakfast sandwich by spreading the now empty bag on the trunk and placing his wrap in its center to peel back the foil with his good arm.

"I could—ah—help you with that. You know, if—"

"I've got it, thanks."

Dean took a sip of his coffee. Black, yes, if you thought that meant just the absence of creamer and sugar. Even with the lid on, he could tell the color of the coffee was closer to a tepid watery brown. He grimaced. "So where exactly are we enjoying this fine meal?"

Sam glanced at him, eyebrows raised. "You're usually a bit more observant." He nodded towards the opposite side of the parking lot, up and over Dean's shoulder.

Dean turned, following Sam's gaze up towards the sky, realizing their view of the morning clouds was dominated by an enormous column of rock which the sunrise had wrapped in swathes of pink and orange. The column, only about five miles away from where they were standing, rose up from the swells of red earth and scrubby trees around its base to an unimaginable height, as massive as a skyscraper, grooved up its sides in rigid straight rows that reminded him somehow of tree bark. Some deep part of his mind set up a quiet buzz. He knew this place, though he'd never been here. Closing his mouth so Sam wouldn't see it hanging agape, he turned back to the parking lot. Avoiding his brother's expectant expression, he sighed, looking around. Asphalt and log cabin cafeterias were so much easier to deal with than that look. Still trying to understand where Sam had driven them, he said, "You brought us to see a rock?"

Sam huffed, looking down at Dean's feet and then back up. "Dude, it's Devils Tower."

"Huh." Of course he knew this place.

Sam continued over his brother's quiet interjection. "I figured, you know, seeing as how we're on vacation, and we've never seen it up close—well, I haven't anyway—I took a little detour."

Dean turned back to the Tower. Little detour? He ran through the highway map in his brain. How was a three hour drive off their original route a "little detour"? Behind him, Sam was still explaining.

"You remember, when we were kids, we'd always drive across Highway 14 on the way to Bobby's or just to get to the next place. I'd find myself looking for it, as soon as we came down off the mountains. Sort of felt like seeing it—out there, a hundred miles from the road—I guess it gave me my bearings, somehow. So I was driving last night and saw one of those brown landmark signs telling me to take this road to get to Devils Tower. And I took it."

Dean grinned. "Uh-huh. You always liked that movie, too." He bit off a chunk of breakfast burrito and chewed absently, glancing over his shoulder and then back up at the column. "The one with the massive ET ship, rising up over this thing like a big ass moon."

"Not ET. Close Encounters."

"Yeah, that one." He turned fully around to face Sam. "Gotta say, I somehow missed you making your Devils Tower sculpture out of your mashed potatoes last night. Not that you eat mashed potatoes."

"Whatever. So, what do you say? Morning walk up to the base and then a little fishing? I saw an access spot not far from here."

Dean half-shrugged, tipping his head briefly towards Sam, and leaned up against the car door. He concentrated on polishing off his breakfast as his brother detailed the instructions on how to get to the trail parking lot. Pretty much a straight shot from the sounds of it, he just had to follow the signs. His eyes roamed over the nearly empty lot and he cut in to ask, "What time is it, anyway? Where are all the tourists?"

Sam's lightning-fast grin appeared. "It's early enough. The guy at the counter said this time of day is mostly for the rock-climbers up on the Tower. We might even get the trail to ourselves." His gaze shifted back to the monolith, and Dean caught the wistful faraway gleam that took over his expression. He wondered if his little brother was imagining the spaceship from that movie again, maybe even wishing he could climb up ET's loading dock like Dreyfuss surrounded by little grey children, and take off into the stars. He couldn't say he'd blame him if he did.

Belatedly, he realized that the buzzing he was feeling in his body was not coming from his mind, but seemed to originate in the amulet. A high, persistent note sang up his arm and down towards his hand, stopping short above the Mark on his forearm. Dean reached up, covered the bronze face hidden beneath his sleeve with his palm, not caring whether Sam would see. He brushed it lightly, and the buzzing faded. He reached in his mind towards the Mark, thinking at it, asking it—_You want to chime in here, too? _But the brand was silent.

"As long as we're here, might as well get a closer look." Dean balled up his foil wrapper and tossed it on top of the drink tray. "Who knows, maybe we'll have a close encounter of our own." He started gathering up the remains of their breakfast.

Sam pulled a single apple out of his coat pocket, watching him. "You don't believe in aliens." He tossed the apple at Dean, who caught it in his free hand.

"Well, yeah—but who says I don't want to believe?" He absently stuffed the apple into his own jacket pocket.

Sam had retrieved a second apple from somewhere. "Okay, Mulder."

"Good one, Scully. Okay." Trash deposited in the closest can, Dean wheeled around towards the driver's side door while Sam bit down on the fruit. _Okay, _he thought. _Not so much. _ He reached across the seat, pushed open the passenger door so that little brother could climb in and eat at the same time. _Not so much, when I start talking to a cow god and a damned mark of evil in my head. Like I think they're gonna talk back._ A flash of the bizarre kamikazi deer from the night before raced through his thoughts, but he brushed it away with a palm across his eyes. _Really not so much._

The drive up to the base took less than ten minutes. Dean pulled the Impala into a teardrop-shaped parking lot near the top of a little rise and found a spot on the south side, near the exit. The tower was visible through and above a sparse stand of trees. The path leading to it curved up the hill, just a short walk to the base. The counterman had been telling the truth; only two other cars were parked up here, and no one was in sight.

He surveyed the area as he exited the car. A small visitor's center sat at the fat loop of the teardrop, but it looked closed. Up here the scent of sage and pine was even stronger, and he could hear the zig-zagging hum of insects in the shrubs just below them. A bird screeched somewhere, and another answered with a more melodic lament. The tower, though, demanded his attention, and he found himself gazing at it again. Sam nodded in satisfaction at it, too, starting out towards the path with a single glance back and a shrug, making sure he was following.

As Dean passed the squat little visitor's center, he caught a glimpse of something low and brown just past the corner of the building. At first he thought it might be a rock, except for the way its tawny shade seemed to shimmer in the strengthening light. He focused on it, unconsciously reaching around to his back for his pistol. Not there, of course—they were on vacation, and the guns were locked under piles of fishing and camping equipment in the trunk. Sam didn't seem to see anything wrong, he was tossing his apple core into the wastebasket in front of the building and walking with quick steps towards the corner. Dean saw him lick his fingers as he neared the shape, completely oblivious. The shape hadn't moved, but as he refocused, he saw its surface ripple once and then go still. A muscle twitch. _Son of a bitch_. He sped up, angling to get in between Sam and the shape. "Hey!" he shouted.

The shape seemed to uncoil and lengthen, melting into the brush. The branches did not waver as it disappeared. Dean pulled up at the end of the building, peering into the space he'd been so sure was occupied by some predator. No sign of anything but dirt, not so much as a paw print or drag mark marred the soft earth under the shrubs. "You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered.

Sam was staring at him warily. Again. "Dean, what's up?"

_Okay, Winchester_, Dean thought. _Get it together. Sammy doesn't need you hallucinating on him right now._

"Nothing," he said. "It's safe to hike here, right? Should we grab one of the guns, just in case?"

"In case of what?"

"Umm—mountain lion?"

Sam shook his head, turned back around. "Dude, we agreed—no weapons, no hunting, remember?"

"Right." He sighed as he followed his brother towards the trail.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam allowed the silence to stretch between them as they approached the trail head. He paused in front of a dusty bronze information plaque that sat, squatting on two posts, at the end of the lot. Dean stopped, too, alongside his brother, and waited for movement or a word. The plaque welcomed them to the Tower in raised letters, and illustrated the path they were to take to the base, admonishing them to stay on the trail, not to feed or pet the wildlife, and to take nothing with them when they left. Dean traced the bronze trail with a finger and glanced around. No freaky deer, no rippling shadows, no other people—

"What?" Sam asked. "You're looking for something."

"What would I be looking for—huh? Nothing here but sage scented chipmunks. And a really big—" Dean shrugged one shoulder, "—impressive—monstrous hunk of rock pretending to be a tree trunk."

Sam stared at him, raising an eyebrow, and Dean felt himself starting to cave in under that skeptical appraisal. He took a breath, and grasped the amulet under his coat, trying to find in its edges a place to start, or a way to describe last night's fevered dream. _Buckle up, you two_, he thought. _Here we go_.

Before the words could tumble out, though, Sam seemed to relent, and turned towards the trail. "It's made of volcanic rock that pushed up through the sandstone sediment. The columns and grooves formed as it cooled. Then the soft rock eroded away and left the-trunk. It does look like a tree, doesn't it?" He took a few steps along the graveled path, "Or maybe like claw marks, like bear claws."

"Uh-huh." Dean put a cautious foot onto the trail.

"Yeah, you know, most of the lore about the Tower has to do with bears."

"Oh, so not aliens, then."

Sam snorted. "Only for Spielberg, I guess. No—I've read stories about a woman seduced away from her husband by a bear when they were camping near here, or two brothers returning from a hunting trip who were chased by a huge bear—" He shot a sideways glance at Dean. "And, the name of the place, too, you know—the Souix called it Mato Tipila, apparently, which means "Bear Lodge". But the story goes that a cavalry officer who passed by here sometime in the 1870's asked his guide what the formation was called, he misunderstood the response, thinking the name meant "a bad place"—so—it became "Devil's Tower." I don't know, though, man—it seems to me that Europeans have a thing about naming strange landscapes after the Devil—like he cares to make anything—"

As Sam trailed off, Dean prompted him. "Right. So, bears, huh?"

"Right. Anyway—"

The amulet's hum suddenly shot up an octave. Dean winced, resisting the urge to cover his ears with his palms. Up ahead, Sam was still telling stories.

"Did you see the picture on the board outside the trading post?"

Dean started to shake his head, struggling to remember anything through the hum and the drumbeat going on in in his head. But then an image came to him, as if carried forward on the soundwaves. "Wait, the one with the grizzly the size of Godzilla?"

"Trying to climb the Tower, yeah—that one." Sam was still walking, pacing a few feet ahead of his brother. "Don't know where it came from, but I think it's supposed to be the giant bear chasing the brothers. There's another version, though, that I liked better—this one has seven sisters—"

"Sisters, like—seven of them?" Dean perked up, "Alright, this I gotta hear."

As he lifted his leg to take another step, Dean felt something invisible brush against his foot, something like an oversize housecat. He jumped back with an involuntary yelp as the discordant music in his head abruptly ceased.

Sam stopped and turned to check on him, and he gazed back, sheepishly ducking his head. "Almost stepped in a pile of something—"

"Whatever, dude—are you sure you're ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, I am. I'm good. Tell your story." Dean's eyes darted from one side of the path to the other, but saw nothing working its way through the underbrush.

Sam crossed his arms. "Maybe this was a mistake."

"No. I'm ok, Sammy. I need you to believe that I'm ok."

"You're not. Dean, five days ago, you—weren't you. And last night and today—you're making me nervous, alright? If something is going on—"

Dean held up a hand. _I'm talking to the Mark and the little bronze god-face and they're singing back. I'm seeing the revenge of Bambi or some damn thing. _"I dunno. Maybe, I'm having some—adjustment issues?"

His little brother shook his head. "If something is going wrong, you know you can tell me, right?"

_I think the amulet is keeping the Mark under wraps somehow, and I don't want to give that up. _"Please, can we just go see the thing? Look for spaceship scorch marks and whistle at the rock climbers?" Over Sam's shoulder, Dean caught a glimpse of something, a low tawny something slipping silently out of the trees and onto the path. He'd never seen one close, but he thought it might be a mountain lion. He reached out, grabbing at Sam's good arm.

The cat paused and looked back as if to see if he would follow. It stared at him with pale blue, almond shaped eyes. Human eyes. Dean's grip tightened as the creature huffed and turned away, trotting around a curve in the path and out of sight.

Sam's eyes were on him, wide with concern. "What? Did you—are you—"

"Seeing things? I dunno, maybe my imaginary friend wants to see the big scary bear rock, too." He glanced up into Sam's face, and away again. The Mark sent a hot spear up his forearm and he wondered why Sam couldn't hear it sizzle. "So come on, let's go." He lifted his chin and gave Sam a nudge forward.


End file.
